


Blacklist This

by Hannigrammatic



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Flirting, Gratuitous Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, One Shot, Rimming, Spanking, Teasing, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannigrammatic/pseuds/Hannigrammatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal/The Blacklist crossover!AU:</p><p>Hannibal Lecter isn't the only dangerous and well-dressed man in the world. ♥</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blacklist This

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. There's like a SMIDGEN of plot in here. I wrote this mainly for myself, since it's been floating around my skull for a week or more! I suppose I just enjoy Will being fucked by sharp-dressed and dangerous men :D Also, Reddington is fucking awesome, so-- WOOPS!
> 
> Tossing this up here because why not? 
> 
> Not beta read!

Will Graham finds himself sitting at a rectangular table late one spring afternoon. On the opposite side of it sits Harold Cooper, Assistant Director of Counterterrorism, FBI, based in New York City. His ‘special’ abilities had never brought him within this jurisdiction before -at least not to consult with Counterterrorism, of all things.

Regardless, he’s here, and Jack Crawford is next to him; a steady, burly presence. It comforts Will knowing that the talking will be taken care of for now, as he’s rather grumpy from the rude wake-up call received late last night, the one that is wholly responsible for him sitting here in this drab conference room. He tries not to hunch over the table, and fights the urge to shove his unkempt curls from his face, glasses perched on his nose a flimsy yet welcome shield from curious, new eyes.

There’s a young woman sitting next to Harold, dark hair held away from her face in a bun. Her badge reads Keen, and Will thinks that her first name is Elizabeth, if he remembers correctly: she looks to be his age, perhaps a few years younger, and her piercing eyes take him in with a little disbelief on the side of curiosity. Will’s used to that, and even had he not been, he would have avoided her direct gaze at any rate. Her attention is decidedly more focused than the others, too, as she, like him, is a criminal profiler.

“I don’t care much for unorthodox -well, anything,” Harold Cooper is saying. “But at this point in time, there are several thousand lives at risk, and I’m willing to put on a tutu and dance if I have to in order to save them.”

Will refrains from raising a brow at the mental image of that and catches a glint of the woman’s expression as she attempts to do the same. A pause takes over the room, before there’s a curt knock at the door.

“Come in,” Cooper says loudly.

The door swings in and a young man enters, all neat lines in a crisp suit, with light brown hair slicked over his head. He’s leading a slightly taller man, whose attire is both lavish and yet unobtrusive. He has a long navy blue coat (hanging opened from his form) on over black slacks and a white button-up. A black tie sits at his throat in a neat double Windsor. Green eyes sit in a slightly rounded face with a strong jaw and full lips, and his short-cropped brown hair is mostly covered by a black fedora.

This man’s hands are, oddly enough, cuffed and connected to a chain that the other man commandeers. 

“Mister Crawford, Mister Graham, I would like you to meet Mister Raymond Reddington. I’m sure I don’t have to elaborate on just who he is.”

This time Will does raise his eyebrow. Everyone who is anyone knows that name, especially within the FBI. Crimelords -or ‘Concierges’ in this individual’s case-, aren’t Will’s area of expertise, but he’s a man who makes a point of being well informed despite that. He glances at the elegant man (there’s really no other word to describe him aptly) once more, and finds a keen eye searching for his gaze briefly. 

Will puts a stop to that quickly and returns his gaze to the table in front of him.

“I just _adore_ how proud you sound when you introduce me, Harold,” Mister Reddington says with a smirk that lifts up one corner of his lips, eyebrows raised in a conspiratorial manner as his tone overexaggerates his words.

The sarcasm is so thick that Will nearly snorts.

Harold Cooper deigns not to respond, face neutral as he faces Will and Jack once more.

“Pleasure,” Jack says, firm and polite.

“Mister Crawford, I presume?” Reddington inclines his head, the action noted by Will from the periphery of his vision.

“That would be me, yes.”

“Excellent. I’ve heard a lot about you over the years. You have a good reputation proceeding you, what with catching all those nasty serial killers.”

Will wants to roll his eyes at the continued, nearly boisterous voice issuing out of Raymond Reddington’s mouth. Will has known the man by several different names over the years, during casual research brought up often by burgeoning students within the Academy (if there was anything that the man had in infinite supply, it would be aliases -and money, probably).

“Well I had a lot of help,” Jack answered in a monotonous voice, expression not dissimilar from Harold Cooper’s own.

 _Don’t do it_ , Will begs inwardly, and unfortunately too late.

“Ah, yes. Mister William Graham. I admit I know a lot more about you than your esteemed colleague,” Raymond’s voice fills Will’s ears with an underlying praise, something that the younger man is unsure how to respond to.

“A lot of people talk about you,” Will finally responds.

He doesn’t want to be here, at all. However, he’s not _that_ much of an asshole, so he speaks despite wanting to disappear into the corner, unneeded and preferably forgotten. If only he wasn’t here because of the complete opposite reason.

“Do these people include you?” Reddington’s smirk can be heard in his voice.

Opting for silence, Will finally meets the man’s gaze -or, the corner of one eye. Direct eye-contact is something that he avoids whenever feasible, no matter the person.

“Mister Reddington here is going to be joining us,” Cooper intercedes. “He has a few tips he’s so _nicely_ offered to share with the room.”

The Assistant Director waves a hand, and the other agent, whose name tag reads Ressler, nods once and releases Reddington from chain and cuffs. He’s lead to the chair on the other side of Harold, and he sits after bestowing a soft smile on Elizabeth Keen and a greeting that goes mostly ignored by the now stiff-faced woman.

Which is how Will finds himself directly across from the renowned man, whose presence is somehow commanding and impossibly pleasant. He adamantly refuses eye-contact for a large portion of the conversation that follows, glasses low on his nose and bisecting his sight safely. He half listens to the spiel about the serial killer known as the Chesapeake Ripper, who allegedly has connections not only to Mister Reddington here, but also to the person known only as the Cipher, who in recent years has been financing the development of a nuclear weapon. Will has been consulting on the Ripper case for half a year now, and finding himself within this room, potentially within sight of the man whose shadow he’s been grasping at, has the dual effect of piquing his interest and largely annoying the shit out of him.

That it could be so easy -to merely talk to the man sitting adjacent to him- to find the serial killer at last… 

Will can’t say he is impressed (and maybe he feels a little insulted at having his inefficiency bared for the room at large), and it must show on his face.

“If it’s any consolation,” Reddington interrupts the current conversation without a care, and his hand suddenly covers Will’s own where it lay tense atop the table. “Our so-called Ripper is a very slippery fish indeed. I just happened to smooth over a transaction gone awry in the past.”

“Lucky you,” Will snaps before he has the mind to stop himself, hand withdrawing from beneath a large, warm one as if burnt.

An entirely different kind of heat races up from beneath his collar before he even realizes what is happening. He reflexively meets green eyes head on for no more than half a second, and even that’s enough to have Will nearly jolting. Something within that gaze is fathomless and knowing, and --

“Mind yourself, Reddington,” Harold Cooper nearly snaps. “We don’t have time for your games.”

“Oh, how silly of me. My apologies, gentlemen. And lady,” a nod to Elizabeth is ignored forcibly. “I just can’t help myself sometimes. Mister Graham here is quite the conundrum.”

 _Mister Graham here hates when people talk about him as if he’s not in the fucking room_ , Will wants to snarl. Instead, he sits back in the chair and crosses his arms securely over his chest, no longer caring about how he appears to the other party.

An hour drags past. Their discussion comes to an end with Will offering a tentative profile of the Cipher, who had been responsible for a massacre a week prior. When Will had seen the news, his empathy had reached out without his consent as it was wont to do, and returned to him the briefest of impressions surrounding a figure, a man most likely, who had seen to the deaths personally. A quiet sense of power and vengeance echoed in Will’s brain, bouncing around like tiny twittering birds.

When he finishes speaking, all eyes opposite him are intense and narrowed in varying degrees of incredulity, coupled with awe; the latter professed in a nearly sparkling gaze by Mister Raymond Reddington. Will would feel proud if he didn’t want to just go home and curl up with his dogs in Wolf Trap, Virginia.

“Utterly fascinating,” Reddington professes. 

“Something like that,” Cooper speaks carefully. “And so far, the most concrete explanation for the situation. Or motive, at least. Mister Graham, thank you for your input.”

Will nods once, face expressionless. The word input informs him immediately that Harold Cooper doesn’t think much of his ‘talent’ regardless of his words.

“So we get in contact with your Ripper,” the Assistant Director continues. “And then we secure intel on our suspect.”

The plan is wobbly, not to mention ridiculous when Will thinks about it. He wonders just how they are going to get in contact with the monster that lingers behind Will’s eyelids at night, beckoning him with a single, skeletal finger to _come here with me, see who you really are_.

“Splendid!” Reddington exclaims. “Mister Graham, have you had the chance to work undercover before?”

Will blinks, understanding dawning on him.

*

Later that evening, Will sits in the back seat of a sleek silver S-Class Mercedes-Benz. The driver is a huge, silent man whose dark eyes occasionally pass over them, as if he is expecting something to happen.

Reddington sits next to him, arm boldly resting on the seat behind Will’s head. He’s far too close, and he speaks in a soft voice that Will likens to one conversing to their lover, way too intimate for his taste. 

The absurdity of that has him squirming often, even so.

Fast forward to the lavish hotel room that they intend to take up residence in for the night, and Will is suddenly forced to question not only himself, but the stupid, insanely smooth man named Raymond Reddington. He who hangs his longcoat on a fancy rack and tosses his fedora on a nearby side table: and he who strides over to the younger man, where he’s standing in the middle of the room.

A room that has a single, massive bed.

“Why is there only one bed?” he asks stupidly.

Everything is happening so fast that he’s unsure how to progress from there, rooted to the expensive beige carpeting. He figures he should have picked up on the older man’s interest from the get-go, but ironically enough, his empathy has chosen to snub him in this instance.

“Use that pretty little head of yours,” large hands rest on Will’s shoulders, and he immediately tenses. “Oh come now, don’t be like that.”

The warmth at his back presses close, and _that’s_ how Will finds himself standing flush against a strong body, with Raymond Reddington’s full lips whispering sinful little suggestions in one of his ears. And Will isn’t sure how he goes from that to locking himself in the hotel bathroom, but he’s entirely grateful to the powers that be for making it happen.

“I’ve always loved a good chase,” that damn voice issues from the other side of the door. “But Mister Graham, you forget-”

A pause, full of magnanimous intentions.

“-like you, I’ve carved my way through this lifestyle because I am an intelligent man, and very much observant, just like yourself.”

 _Fuck off_ , Will wants to proclaim.

“Meaning… do you think I missed that blush, back at the ‘Post Office’, dear?”

“Fuck,” Will hisses behind his hand.

*

The damned man is sitting cross-legged on deep red velvet chaise lounge. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, forearms bare, a shiny silver watch on one wrist catching the light dazzling the room from the crystal chandelier above. Will walks out of the safety of the bathroom slowly, brow furrowed. As always, any attempts at making sense of his own brain in any shape, way, or form, ends up with him feeling fuzzy and borderline-unreal.

The only thing he knows with any certainty is that he can’t deny Reddington’s words.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” he announces.

A single brow raises as green eyes survey him intently.

“Seriously?” Will waves his hands in the air. “Ugh. I mean I’m not going to sleep in the same bed with you.”

“Might we do something else in that bed instead?” Reddington quips almost immediately.

Flushing, the younger man turns around and takes a single step towards the bathroom to return to it’s pristine quiet. He senses movement before he can see it or prepare for it, and then the world is upending briefly. He lands with a grunt on the incredibly soft bed, face-first in a silk duvet. Swiftly, a large body covers him, pinning him down into the bed with dextrous fingers gripping his hair tight.

“I’ll admit I’m just improvising at the moment,” the flippant voice curls into his ear with a puff of warm breath. “In fact, I am going on pure instinct at the moment.” 

Will’s simple, already threadbare long-sleeved shirt rips loudly, and buttons pop out to ricochet off an elaborate wooden headboard.

“Something tells me that this is exactly what you want -and need.”

His belt flies into the air and strikes a vase, tumbling it and the faux flowers within it to the ground. The shattering of glass is completely ignored -by Will, because he is far too distracted, and by Reddington for the very simple reason that the _gentleman_ simply doesn’t give a single fuck (especially not to a reason as paltry as a broken vase). Will hisses as fingers dip into his pants and boxers both to cup his cock in hand, the member twitching and hardening as blood races south almost instantly. 

He wants to insist it’s against his will, but _fuck_ if he hasn’t wanted this the second the man walked through the door. He can see it now, clear as day, sifting through his jumbled brain and finally revealing the truth like a treasure unburied after years of searching. In neon lettering, flashing obnoxiously, Will Graham’s body insists on getting well and truly fucked.

By a bigger, older, elegant prick of a man. Pun intended.

“And you just happen to want the same?” Will asks breathily.

“More or less,” teeth nip at his earlobe and Will bucks his ass into the other, who pinions him to the luxurious bed. The hand in his hair shifts to balance the man as he begins to mercilessly jerk Will off. “Honestly, I would be rather shocked if anyone didn’t take one look at you and want to ravish you into senselessness.”

“Flattery won't get you anywhere,” the younger man growls.

“I don’t need flattery to get me anywhere when I’m already here, sweetheart.”

The man’s confidence has Will’s dick leaking profusely, aided by the almost rough strokes that end with a squeeze around the sensitive tip. Will growls louder, searching with his mouth in the blanket until he finds Reddington’s wrist. His teeth clamp down hard enough to draw droplets of blood, the metallic taste on his tongue only serving to turn him on even more.

“Oh, you darling thing. How did you know?”

“W-what?” Will’s lips are painted crimson when he draws away, confused.

“Pain is just a gorgeous thing, don’t you agree?”

The words are his only warning before he’s shifted, thrown bodily upwards on the bed. His head sinks into a goose feather pillow for maybe a full second, and then he’s hauled up to the headboard. Held there by a strong hand planted in the small of his back, Will manages one gasp before he’s crying out loudly. A stinging, utterly delicious slap meets his asscheek once more, pants and undergarments torn down his thighs to tangle around his knees faster than he can blink. He ruts into the solid wood in front of him and looks down at his weeping cock.

“More,” he begs.

“What’s that now?” 

“ _More_!”

‘More’ turns into six strikes that unerringly hit their mark, turning his supple asscheeks pink and then red. He’s moaning and it’s out of his control now, and he takes his cock in hand to get himself off instinctively, craving the impending orgasm as if his life depended on it. His heart thunders in his chest and in his ears.

“No, no, no, I’m afraid not,” Reddington’s voice is deeper now with his own arousal, the command filtering into Will’s brain and causing him to turn hot.

He’s blushing over his entire body, he knows, and he can’t even bring himself to care at all. He pushes into the body behind him and finds an answering, clothed erection there, warm between his cheeks and hard where it rubs insistently along his hole. He gives brief thought to any potential neighbors before slamming his hands on the wall in his frustration.

“Don’t worry, I want this as much as you do,” Reddington sighs. “As much as I would love to tie you down and have you sobbing long into the next afternoon, we don’t have that kind of time.”

Those hands grip his hips and _lift_. His ass is suddenly spread wide open with thumbs stroking and kneading while long fingers hold him in place. Reddington’s mouth is hot, too hot, breath tickling along the tightly furled muscle of his asshole. His tongue, large and flattened, laves against his most sensitive spot without preamble, a wet and seeking muscle that wastes no time dipping into him. A shaky glance over his shoulder shows Will that the older man is holding nothing back to save his majestic image, and somehow that is sexier than he thinks he can handle.

“If I were a poet, I imagine I could write my masterpiece about the sounds you make while you’re on my tongue,” the man remarks as he draws away.

Will glimpses a wet chin and eyes darkened with lust. And then he’s banging his forehead into the wall because Reddington has two fingers scissoring inside of him, thick and powerful and bending him figuratively and literally to their will. 

“Louder, dear.”

He obeys, sobbing and whining, nearly wailing as rough fingertips nudge and tease his prostate relentlessly. There is no mercy, Reddington fucking his fingers inside of him nearly harshly. The stinging pain centers Will like nothing else as he rocks with and into the thrusts. Three fingers now, twisting and twirling within him, and then they are gone, leaving him bereft.

“Fuck!” Will nearly roars. 

Irrational anger clouds his mind, and he turns to snap at the other man. Apparently expecting it, Reddington grabs the a fistful of hair and slams his cheek into the wall after releasing his hips. Then there’s a mass of heat and strength and pleased murmurs holding him there, free hand stroking gently along his flank.

“I completely agree,” the cheeky bastard says.

Will doesn’t hear it over the rushing in his ears, doesn’t care, really; Reddington unzips his pants, though, holds himself in hand and then guides the fat head of his thick cock inside of the younger man’s twitching hole. It’s dryer than any of them prefer on the norm, and perfect for the punishing direction their evening has taken. He fucks the beautiful creature in his arms into the headboard and the wall, occasionally pulling out to spit in his hand, lubricating his cock to make the ride mutually bearable. He grips the aforementioned headboard eventually to propel himself forward until the entire bed is creaking and bumping loudly forward. Will can’t catch his breath and he settles for biting his bottom lip hard, drawing his own blood and lapping it away with a hitched gasp. A splintering crack is vaguely heard over their fucking -neither of them notice entirely, and one of them still doesn’t care anyway.

Will comes quick and unexpectedly, balls drawn tight, and his come splatters the bedding and the wood and the wall and his own flat stomach. He screams through his orgasm, eyes shut tight, brain blissfully empty. Reddington pulls out and releases on his ass and thighs. He doesn’t move away, however; instead, he leans heavily forward, panting and grumbling as satisfaction turns him lax. Will, for his part, collapses entirely, held up only by the other. 

Silence rings loudly in the room that now smells of sweat and sex and blood.

“Holy fuck,” Will remarks.

“I don’t often think of my fucking as holy, but thank you for the compliment,” Mister Reddington chuckles in his ear.

He mouths at a damp neck, nose nuzzling into sweaty curls. He allows himself a moment, and then pulls away. Later, cleaned and sated, they lay side by side in the huge bed, sheets and pillows and duvet replaced by a red-faced maid that Will only catches a glimpse of as he’s returning from a shower. He blinks at the door closing with a distinct click, and then doesn’t allow himself to think about anything other than curling up next to the man known by too many names to list. Despite his words, he falls asleep next to Raymond Reddington, and wakes up to the man offering him a tray piled high with breakfast.

*

There were complaints, he learns the next day, as they are on their way to an opera where they would apparently be meeting up with the Chesapeake Ripper himself. 

Will can only hope that his face isn’t red when he finally confronts the elusive serial killer.

One look at Reddington’s glittering green eyes tells him that he’s already doomed.


End file.
